hope to apply to themselves the
stern and solemn lesson which is taught even by these flower-garlanded
mounds. But, for myself, I confess that I am always awed by the presence
of the dead. I cannot jest above the gravestone. My spirit is silenced
and rebuked before the tremendous mystery of which the grave reminds me,
and involuntarily pays:

"The deep reverence taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death."

Even Nature's cheerful air, and sun, and birdvoices only serve to remind
me that there are those beneath who have looked on the same green leaves
and sunshine, felt the same soft breeze upon their cheeks, and listened
to the same wild music of the woods for the last time. Then, too, comes
the saddening reflection, to which so many have given expression, that
these trees will put forth their leaves, the slant sunshine still fall
upon green meadows and banks of flowers, and the song of the birds and
the ripple of waters still be heard after our eyes and ears have closed
forever. It is hard for us to realize this. We are so accustomed to
look upon these things as a part of our life environment that it seems
strange that they should survive us. Tennyson, in his exquisite
metaphysical poem of the Two Voices, has given utterance to this
sentiment:--

"Alas! though I should die, I know
That all about the thorn will blow
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow.

"Not less the bee will range her cells,
The furzy prickle fire the dells,
The foxglove cluster dappled bells."

"The pleasures of the tombs!" Undoubtedly, in the language of the
Idumean, seer, there are many who "rejoice exceedingly and are glad when
they can find the grave;" who long for it "as the servant earnestly
desireth the shadow." Rest, rest to the sick heart and the weary brain,
to the long afflicted and the hopeless,--rest on the calm bosom of our
common mother. Welcome to the tired ear, stunned and confused with
life's jarring discords, the everlasting silence; grateful to the weary
eyes which "have seen evil, and not good," the everlasting shadow.

Yet over all hangs the curtain of a deep mystery,--a curtain lifted only
on one side by the hands of those who are passing under its solemn
shadow. No voice speaks to us from beyond it, telling of the unknown
state; no hand from within puts aside the dark drapery to reveal the
mysteries towards which we are all moving.